


Enclosed Please Find

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [137]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 14:44:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15951491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Loki's new across-the-way neighbor has a bad habit of not closing his blinds.





	Enclosed Please Find

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Our apartments face each other AU. Prompt from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).

The guy across the way was at it again. He was pacing around his living room without a shirt on, gesturing wildly at something with a spoon in his mouth and a cup of yogurt in his fist. From this distance, it was hard to tell if he was talking to someone unseen person or to the TV. Either way, the man was clearly not fond of relaxing at home; so far as Loki could see, he seemed to be in perpetual motion.

It wasn’t like Loki was trying to spy. What people did on their own time was their business, especially people he didn’t know, had never spoken to, but who lived just across the way and had an apparent deep-seated aversion to using the blinds. And who were terrifyingly gorgeous.

Gorgeous because blond, bearded, and light-colored eyes; terrifying because the guy was the size of a redwood, all muscle, the kind that only came with hours upon hours, fucking decades in the gym to end up as such a beautiful beast.

Loki’s kitchen looked straight into the man’s living room when nobody’s curtains were drawn, and since he’d discovered this unexpected miracle the month before, Loki had been ordering a hell of a lot less takeout. And eating a lot less well for it, but never mind. Who needed a full belly when he could have instead a newly-vivid imaginary life, one that involved that chest, those hands pressing Loki into his bed or over his tiny kitchen table, the hips that Loki had only ever had hints of, peeking out above denim, rocking insistent, unyielding against his?

Oh, god yes. A month’s worth of burned rice and semi-cooked pasta was well fucking worth that.

He fell asleep damp from his own hand on the regular and dreamed of that beard between his thighs, that vivid pink tongue put to better use than lapping away at some damned strawberry yogurt, and woke up hard, shivering like a teenager dying for his first kiss.

Maybe, he thought one morning, idle, tugging out the last few spurts, he should send the guy a bill for his laundry, should demand restitution for all the extra quarters he was having to feed into the machines because the bold and the beautiful refused to keep his shirt on inside his own house. The thought amused him. _Dear sir_ , he imagined his note might begin. _Enclosed please find a receipt detailing all the extra wash cycles your fondness for public semi-nudity has made necessary. I’ll accept payment by check, cash, or blowjob. Your place or mine?_

The thought made him laugh, the picture of the man’s face when he read such a note even more so. Poor sod. Loki stretched out, luxurious, wallowing in the last of his pleasure. The oaf had no idea what he was doing, the kind of effect that his ridiculous shirtlessness should have. Bless him. He probably came from someplace out in the country where there was nobody for miles around, where nobody saw the need to lock their doors, much less close their blinds. Bless him, Loki thought, blissful; bless this man and his ignorant ways.

 

*****

And then, one night, the game changed.

Loki got home late, after ten. The proposal they’d been working on for a solid week had suddenly come up short; one of the partners had decided they didn’t like one vital part of the pitch and they hadn’t had to start from scratch, exactly, but goddamn near close. Loki would be pulling 11s for the rest of the week, if not a host of all-nighters, and by the time he stumbled in his front door, the prospect had him well fucking pissed. He hated wasting time, hating expending unnecessary and easily avoidable effort.

Loki slammed into the kitchen, suddenly starving--for food, maybe? At the very least, for white wine--and made a beeline for the fridge in the dark.

If the partner, one of the grand old men (read: dangerously out of touch) of the firm had just read the whole proposal initially like he’d said he had and not waited until the last minute to move the fuck past page one, then they wouldn’t be in this mess, they wouldn’t have written thirty pages that now had to be scrapped, that now had to be--

The light was on across the way, his hind brain said helpfully.

Ok fine, he told it, reaching for a glass. Any glass. The big plastic one Balder had brought him from Disneyland? Perfect.

\--rewritten in a day when it’d taken them five to bang out this draft, and--

LIGHT IS ON, IDIOT. his brain shouted at him. LOOK.

Loki whipped around just to shut the thing up and nearly, very nearly, dropped the bottle of wine.

The light was indeed on in the pretty man’s living room. And the pretty man was indeed present. But he was sitting in an armchair Loki had never seen him actually use in the way it was intended. The chair faced Loki’s window squarely and he seen the man use it as a barre, as an armrest, as a place to set his drink. He’d never actually seen the man _sit_.

Much less have a hand down his pants.

Correction: his pants weren’t down, they were open and tugged a little ways down his ass. And the man’s hand was, more specifically, fisted around what Loki could only compute as a rather fat and happy cock.

He was smiling as he stroked, broad and shameless, and the eagerness in his body, the need, the way he arched into the touch of his own hand, froze Loki right there, watching, powerless to turn away.

Loki stood in the dark of his kitchen, the wine sweating away in his hand, and watched his gorgeous stranger of a neighbor tip his head back and pinch his nipples and come in a great white rush up his stomach and over his fist.

But it wasn’t until the man started lapping the come off his fingers that Loki moved, made a sound; slumped against the counter and let out a piteous moan.

This was unfair, utterly and truly. Unfucking fair to the max. How dare this man be so beautiful. How dare he not invest in curtains. How dare he be so close and yet so goddamn far away.

And, Loki realized a few minutes later, panting, tipped over on the kitchen floor in the sticky, shameful sum of his rut, I don’t even know who to address my outrage to. I don’t even know this idiot’s name.


End file.
